


predilection

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Booker can't dance, but rather than he won't. But he'll come around, one way or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's a certain muse's birthday today, so you know what that means: fic! More precisely, fic springboarding off of [this ask](http://robertenraptured.tumblr.com/post/97529509047/lutece-what-do-you-want-for-your-birthday). Happy birthday, Mister Lutece ( [robertenraptured](http://robertenraptured.tumblr.com/) ), from one universe's iteration of Booker.

"It is," Booker said, quite simply in acknowledgement. The colour rose in his cheeks, even as the physicist blinked back surprised realization.  "Or that’s what the calendar says, if I remembered right."

Perhaps it spoke to the amount of time that Robert Lutece spent lingering in the recesses of his mind, when the man in question forgot the very date that Booker remembered. But such an oversight on Robert’s part could be explained away by other, more important matters. Such as the disappearance of the mentor—the very same that Booker had been hired to find—that held control of the funding for the laboratories that Robert and his twin sister worked in.

If he hadn’t reminded him,  _surely_  Rosalind would have. Two pairs of eyes, as Booker had grudgingly learned over the course of his investigative career, were occasional more adept at spotting irregularity than one. Unless both blue-eyed gazes happened to belong to overworked twin physicists, who cared little to be reminded of another tick mark against the years allotted to their lives.

Perhaps  _not_ , then.

The withering of youth’s bloom went hand in hand with the removal of rose-coloured lenses, and it was almost sad when the joy that birthdays brought to children turned to weary acceptance. Which was what made the decidedly-youthful skip of his heartbeat, and the half-smile that emotion brought to his lips, a most curious thing.

"Don’t hold your breath, Lutece."  He fell into the habit of formality to shield himself, even as his hand came to rest against the physicist’s shoulder.  "You know I—"

"— _Don’t dance_ ,” Robert cut in, with a ceiling-ward roll of his eyes. “As you’ve made quite clear on numerous occasions.”

Booker took the jab with equal parts good humour and silent acceptance, shifting atop his perch on the armchair to tousle the man’s tidy hair. Amidst Robert’s fuss over his carelessness, they moved to other topics and the matter of the Lutece birthday was shuffled off quietly to the side.

But try as he did to prevent it, Robert’s request for a dance followed him back to the office that he called home. It took flight in the music drifting out of Rapture Record’s, and up the stairs to the upper levels of Market Street. The errant thought chased him through what should have been a dreamless sleep, sending redheaded physicists with neat hair and gentle smiles waltzing through his unconscious mind, until Booker had no choice but to watch the neon lights outside his window flicker across the foot of his bed.

The next evening found him still entirely possessed by the thought, and as he sighed wearily with the realization that it would simply not go away, he made plans for just how he would be rid of it. It was not that Booker could not dance, but rather that he would not.

To dance was to risk the intimacy of touch, and tear down the walls he had built. To dance was to invite the closeness of another body, and all that it entailed. He set those thoughts aside as he waited on the doorstep of the physicist’s apartment, instead letting his hands fidget with the tie at his collar. It was with almost-childlike innocent that he startled with, when Robert Lutece met him at the door.

"There’s a club—the Icarus Lounge, to be exact. Great music. Intimate atmosphere. Laid-back regulars. I was  _wonderin_ ’,” Booker murmured, gaze wandering to every place but where it mattered most.  "If you’d like to go dancin’."

A moment longer, before he cleared his throat and met Robert’s eyes. “With me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Robert Lutece is finding out first-hand why he doesn’t dance, one misstep at a time.

Someone, somewhere, said that dancing was a lot like fighting. Booker sets his jaw firmly against the plethora curses he’s been keeping back since the start of the merry tune, and continues to blunder along. Whoever that person was must have been one hell of a bad dancer, or godawful at fighting.

“ _Mister DeWitt._ ”  There’s an edge of deliberate restraint in the physicist’s tone, and the clipped Britishness of his next statement almost funny if he wasn’t trying so hard not to wince . “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I’d appreciate it if you would  _refrain_  from stepping on my foot quite so much.”

Booker shrugs carelessly as if this is old news, one hand low on the other’s back and the other gripping Robert’s elegant fingers. “Sorry. It’s been a while.”

Without skipping a beat, “About  _how_  long ago was your last dance, if I might ask?”

He remembers a veil floating gently, and the laughter of a young woman being spun round and round. They are giddy off of life and love, and he is no less clumsy when it comes to navigating the dance floor with her.

"Twenty years ago," Booker says, "Give or take a few months."

A weaker man would have groaned, and kicked him off the dance floor. To Robert’s credit, he merely nods knowingly, and they dance on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was Shipping Sunday, and someone asked for Booker/Robert. So of course, I obliged with a continuation of the earlier standalone fic.


End file.
